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Banksy. “Waiting in vain”.

I stopped on this corner
to see life passing by
with the resignation of one who goes out
to smoke a cigarette
in the open where throws
the famous and pseudo-universal edict: “No Smoking”.
I gazed at it circulating on the pavement
stained with urine and dark reminiscences
of gums spitted on the eagerness of the day.
I saw it flouncing or hobbling,
singing with a voice out of tune
the popular ballad halted in the time,
or harmonizing with fluid and melodic tones
the new old verse trapped in the dungeons
of the dark memory.
All at the same price.
Hour after hour,
year after year,
I see it walk through the day
with the same indifference of a sky
incinerated in ravishing winter sunsets
on screensavers that nobody looks at.
Here, on this fixed point
where life flows always the same,
I stopped with a hope of flower or stone,
of tutelary stars revolving against the chance
of galaxies and times,
of juicy fruits for the delight
of who ask for their last wish before the end
of a perfect illusion.

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